


Children of the Orient

by demiyurgos



Series: Children of the Orient [1]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Violence, Death, Gen, Gun Violence, My First Work in This Fandom, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Racism, Series, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27682856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demiyurgos/pseuds/demiyurgos
Summary: This was the fate of his people. Those who came from a place where they were constantly taught that their brains were the only thing that mattered. People who had been conditioned to believe that their existence meant less and was pressured to prove that it didn’t by carving their own success in what they believed to be the modern day Canaan.The little boy’s eyes fluttered shut. His breathing shortened, now nothing but a staccato of air exiting his lungs.If that child had to die, he wouldn’t die cowering in a corner.If that little boy’s life was one that didn’t matter — one without dignity. At least, his corpse would get a better treatment.
Series: Children of the Orient [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024357
Kudos: 3





	Children of the Orient

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this is my first work in this fandom, and it will be a part of an ongoing series. this is an alternate take on jason todd in which he is the descendant of indonesian immigrants that fled to the united states.
> 
> so, enjoy??? feedback and comments are always appreciated.

Dim lights swung above the unkempt hallways of the tenement on Sixth and Lincoln, casting an eerie light over the bodies laid lifeless on its wooden floor. Like brown leaves falling off a tree in autumn, they were scattered. Pools of crimson forming beneath every hole punctured on their skin. The stench of death, combined with the ever-present ones of piss and unattended household waste created the perfect cacophony of unpleasantness.  Everything was still — unchanging. Serene in the most perverse manner. The dead were captured in that moment in time, like a macabre painting by some obscure Finnish artist on the brink of suicide.

That was until a pair of heavy footsteps entered the vicinity. Firm and with conviction they stepped, as if this valley of death was his daily bread; dead bodies, brutally butchered  **—** nothing but a sight they have grown desensitized to.

He wasn’t a police officer, no. The boys in blue over at the GCPD headquarters would never bat an eye at situations like this. Deaths that don’t make it to the news; ones the crowd had no idea of. This person, who had just walked into the sight of the massacre, was anything  _ but _ .

The floorboards creaked whenever he stepped, some even bent — threatening to cave in beneath his weight — allowing trails of blood to flow down between its cracks.

As he went on, the person observed. His eyes studying each and every one of the people lying dead on the floor. Though his face was covered by a bright red mask, the bitterness and anger bubbling inside of him radiated through.

There, on the floor, left to die and be forgotten, were people that looked like him. Men, women, and children who shared the color of his skin. Who came from the Far East — like his grandparents did — to find a better life in the land of the free. They had dreams and aspirations, anxieties and goals. Those people bought into the same siren’s call of the American dream.

And they paid for it with their lives.

A soft whimper, barely audible to the average human being, caught his attention. Neck snapped immediately to the source of the sound while his hands retrieved a modified Walther PPQ Q5 Match and turned off its safety in a matter of seconds.

Cautiously, with his hand ready to pull the trigger at any moment, he walked towards the source of the voice. A dark spare room with its door hanging on the last portion of its hinges. A minute caving on the floor decorated by the constant flow of blood — mimicked that of a waterfall.

A beam of light broke the crepuscule that blanketed the room as he aimed his gun into its interior.

“Shit—”

On the corner of the room, curled in fear, was a child. His clothes were nothing more than a sack. Torn at almost every part. Its bright colored mired with grease and dirt, creating a sickening brownish hue. One commonly associated with poverty and famine.

In an instant, he walked over to the hurting child. The light from his gun shining over his sickly figure.

**_Malnutrition_.**

A common occurrence in this community. They sold everything to get there. Now that they’ve arrived, they barely had enough to feed and clothe themselves.

“Are you wounded?”

There was no verbal response — only more whimpering. Each time weaker than the last as the young boy slowly succumbed to the inevitable. Eyelids opening and closing as the last of his consciousness slipped back and forth.

The person with the heavy footsteps took off his red helmet. In the darkness contrasted by one streak of blinding light, the child could not make out his face. The red helmet, however, was unmistakable.

“Red Hood? ” A little voice, barely audible except for the man standing beside him.

“Yes. ” Answered Jason, in a language he had not spoken with ever since his father got locked up. "What happened here?"

Rhetorical. He knew precisely what happened.

“Evil people _ — _ ” Answered the boy. His tender fingers clutching his side as he forced the word out of his mouth. “There were so many .”

Jason nodded. This boy was in too much pain. Making him talk would only add to it.

With every passing second the sight of the little boy grew more and more painful to watch. So much that his knees grew weak and buckled, forcing him to kneel beside the dying child. Seeing his unavoidable death from a much closer distance.

This was the fate of his people. Those who came from a place where they were constantly taught that their brains were the only thing that mattered. People who had been conditioned to believe that their existence meant less and was pressured to prove that it didn’t by carving their own success in what they believed to be the modern day Canaan.

The little boy’s eyes fluttered shut. His breathing shortened, now nothing but a staccato of air exiting his lungs.

Jason’s eyes grew wet with tears. Any attempt to wipe it dry was proven to be futile as drops began to run down his cheeks. A gasp of pain and utter sorrow escaped his mouth as he kneeled there — watching the flames of life die out from a little boy’s body. One that looked like him, and  _ could’ve been _ him if he hadn’t been so lucky.

Though he felt his own breath trapped inside his lungs, Jason readjusted the boy’s position.  If that child had to die, he wouldn’t die cowering in a corner.  If that little boy’s life was one that didn’t matter — one without dignity. At least, his corpse would get a better treatment.

Slowly, he laid the boy on the floor before removing his hands from his ribs, placing it instead on his chest — one on top of the other.


End file.
